


Logos

by Wyrdly



Category: Sanditon (TV 2019)
Genre: (hopefully), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, wading into another AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:14:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22454797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wyrdly/pseuds/Wyrdly
Summary: If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly.A (sort of) arranged marriage AU.
Relationships: Charlotte Heywood/Sidney Parker
Comments: 64
Kudos: 173





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello! I'm back with another one. Before we start: a few trigger warnings. I've set the rating to mature because I feel as though some of the things I'm going to tackle are well...a bit more mature. Someone commented on my last work about doing an arranged marriage AU (or something of that sort) and I think it was meant to be more fluffy and I'm sorry, because I ended up with this. It was about the only interesting way I could think to do it that hasn't already been done so well already by the other lovely writers on this site. I am aiming (as always) for a happy ending, but it's more Dickensian than Austen (rather like some aspects of the show) and it won't be as light and cheerful as my previous story, if you happen to have read that one!  
> Please do be aware that Charlotte has had a more unpleasant backstory than in the show, and does struggle with anxiety attacks and dissociative episodes. However, I don't plan at all on there being any graphic content/violence (any more than we might expect from the show itself), which is why I haven't tagged them in the warnings.  
> If at any point you have a query, or you think I should change the tags, please do just let me know :)
> 
> Updates will be roughly weekly, I'll let you know if that changes at any point!

They marry on a Tuesday.  
Charlotte has never met her future husband. She saw him once, she believes, in a crowded room at Lady’s Susan’s gathering. She cannot remember whether they spoke. Perhaps it was so, perhaps not.

He had proposed in a letter.  
“You will not accept!” Susan had laughed, astounded. Then, as she had seen the stubborn set of Charlotte’s jaw, her face had grown more serious.  
“Charlotte.” She had said. “My dear, you do not have you marry anyone.” She had taken both Charlotte’s hands in hers, “Is it that you are tired of London? We shall leave, we shall go abroad. We shall go to Scotland, if that is what you wish!”  
Charlotte had shaken her head. “Everywhere is the same.” She had said tiredly, “It will not end. Why not begin something?”  
“This is not a beginning.” Susan had tapped the letter firmly, scornfully. “He is a desperate man, he wants you only for your money.”  
“Yes.” Charlotte had replied faintly, “But at least he was honest about it. At least he wants it for something.”  
“You cannot believe his story!” Susan had been outraged, Charlotte had never seen her so close to losing her temper. “It is a farce, a fiction! You deserve better than this exhausted cynicism. I expected better of you.”  
“I am sorry to have let you down.” Charlotte had said, although she could not even summon tears. They had been hard to come by for many months. “You will not have to endure the disappointment long. We marry in a fortnight.”  
“Have you even spoken with him?” Susan had called after her as she left the room, “Would you recognise him in the street? Charlotte!”  
But Charlotte had forged on, heedless of her friend’s cries. Everything was numb, everything was nothing.  
Her money had been her despair, it might as well be somebody’s else’s salvation.

Tuesday dawns with rain on the windows. Charlotte dresses calmly, unhurried. As she steps into her wedding gown she thinks fondly of her friend despite their disagreement. Susan had not been pleased with her decision, but her anger had swiftly melted into worry.  
“You are not happy, Charlotte.” She said at frequent intervals, “This is not the answer.”  
“I have already agreed.” Charlotte would repeat, “I have given my word. It matters not, I am unhappy whatever I do.”  
Finally, Susan had given up and purchased the wedding gown as an apology. Charlotte had hardly wanted to mark the occasion by any special purchase, but she cannot deny its quiet loveliness. A silvery white muslin, it is somehow without the ostentation of an evening gown, the shining threads so carefully interspersed throughout the fabric that it does not seem too heavy to be worn in daylight. Yet, whenever touched by candlelight or a soft ray of sun it seems to shimmer gently, catching alight with an ethereal glow. Charlotte draws over it a spencer jacket of a pale blue satin, round pearl buttons like tears on the cuffs and down the double breasted front. She feels as though she were dressing to match the weather, the blue-tinged grey of the weeping sky and the shining, misted London streets.  
Beatrice pins her hair for her, the loose curls that hang just past her shoulders being spun up into a simple knot, carefully parted down the middle.  
“You look lovely, Miss.” Beatrice whispers, but Charlotte cannot bring herself to look long at her reflection.  
“Thank you.” She says, and picks up her bonnet of lightly spun straw, offcuts of the silver muslin trimming its edges, with a blue satin ribbon under the chin. “Is it ten yet?”  
“But a quarter past nine, Miss.” Beatrice says, then hesitates. “The Lady Susan ordered the carriage for a quarter to the hour.”  
“Thank you.” Charlotte says again, then seats herself on the window cushions, staring out into the rainy mists of London in September. She picks up her book, puts it down again. John Milton cannot tempt her today, not for all his celestial battles of glory and human frailty. She feels the unfamiliar tug of pins stretching her hair tight against her head and aches to remove them. Susan told her it was better if she wore it up, particularly amongst society, but the woman said nothing if Charlotte let it hang loose when she wandered about the privacy of their home.  
Lady Susan’s home.  
Charlotte has no home.  
She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes to banish her thoughts.  
The rattle of a carriage upon the cobbles outside breaks her reverie, and she looks out to see a man leap down from a dark cab. His hat and coat are black, and he ducks his head from the rain as he raps on the door. Charlotte can hear it from without and within, the rattle of it through the window alongside the echo from the hall. It makes her flinch.  
Mr. Hawkins answers the door, and Charlotte strains her hearing to catch low voices murmuring below. She thinks about moving, but a dull listlessness has overcome her, and she sees no need.  
“Miss.” Beatrice stands at the door to Charlotte’s room. “The Lady Susan is still dressing, Miss, and the man is asking for you.”  
“What is his name?” Charlotte asks, in no particular mood to greet anyone, be they a familiar acquaintance or a complete stranger.  
“I believe it is him.” Beatrice widens her eyes, and Charlotte feels her heart drop into her stomach. “He seems agitated.” Beatrice says, and Charlotte takes a deep breath.  
“I shall be down in a moment.” She tells Beatrice, and as the girl flies back downstairs Charlotte stands, smoothing the tiny wrinkles from her gown. Her fingers overlap as she grips her bonnet with both hands. With wandering steps and slow, she thinks. Her second Fall has begun. She grasps the straw weave tightly, and begins the descent.

A dark figure stands in the sitting room, Beatrice gesturing awkwardly for Charlotte to go in.  
Charlotte approaches, too weary to stand on ceremony.  
“I expected to meet you at the church.” She says quietly, and the man turns.  
“Did you.” He wears a heavy frown, and Charlotte rifles through her mind to recall ever seeing him before. If she has, she has no remembrance of it. He is handsome, she realises almost absently, but he wears an air of frustration and an expression of anger that almost disguises the fair lines of his features.  
“I believe I wrote to tell you I would take you there myself.” He frowns even further, his speech abrupt.  
“No such letter arrived.” Charlotte tells him calmly. She has learned well not to rise to another's agitation with her own. The man does not look at her directly, his eyes moving slowly from the window to the carpet, but at her words they screw shut tightly.  
“Damn.” He swears, the room very still and silent around them. He looks up, and for a moment Charlotte sees his dark eyes clearly. “They brought forward the time.”  
“They cannot.” Charlotte blinks, but he shakes his head.  
“Well, they have. We must go now.” He gestures sharply to the door, and Charlotte feels a slight sense of dismay beginning to break through the fog in her mind.  
“We cannot.” She says, echoing her previous words as though moving slowly through a dream.  
“We must.” His impatience increases, “I wrote, and I am sorry that the letter went astray, but we must go now. You are ready, I am ready, what is there to delay us?”  
“Lady Susan.” Charlotte protests weakly, “We need her to witness.” He shakes his head forcefully.  
“She may join us if she is ready, but my brother and his wife shall be there to witness. If we do not make haste we must wait another week.”  
Charlotte stands, frozen in indecision.  
“Mrs. Campion,” He says quietly, almost entreating, “I would have this done.” Charlotte closes her eyes.  
“Very well, Mr. Parker.” She clears her throat. “Beatrice!” She calls, and Beatrice appears at the door. Charlotte knows she has heard every word. “Tell Susan we had to go immediately, they have moved the ceremony forwards. Ask her to hurry.”  
Beatrice nods and rushes upstairs.  
As the front door closes behind Charlotte, she can hear Susan’s outraged exclamation echo down the stairs. She closes her eyes and moves towards the carriage behind Mr. Parker’s tall form.  
She too, would have this done.

The church is dark and cold, the vicar impatient. The haste of their wedding implies something almost improper, Charlotte is aware. She does not really care. The sordid implication of being a fallen woman seems to her less execrable than the truth of her reasons for marrying.  
She glances, every now and then, towards the door where she hopes Susan will soon appear, but it remains still. Behind her, Mr. Parker’s brother and his wife stand solemnly, faces pale.  
Charlotte does not know exactly what family business her money is meant to save, but it is clear that it weighs upon them heavily. The woman’s face is creased with worry, and the man fidgets constantly with the watch in his pocket.  
At last, just as the vows are exchanged, Susan bursts through the door.  
“Forgive me!” She cries down the aisle, striding with authority to the front of the church. To someone who might not know her better, she appears perfectly composed, resplendent in light gold satin. Charlotte notices the lack of earrings in her ears, the light wisps of hair tugged too swiftly from their rags, the ribbon of her bonnet laced in an ugly knot.  
“Madam,” The vicar’s patience appears to be worn out, “Did you wish to protest this union?”  
Susan looks sorely tempted, but she only shakes her head.  
“Then pray.” The vicar’s skin becomes mottled with agitation, “Sit down.” Susan throws Charlotte a beseeching glance as she shuffles into a pew, but Charlotte can only blink in return.  
The plain yellow band slips onto Charlotte’s finger much as her previous ring had, though the gold is lighter, duller. It suits her, she thinks. Unpolished and tired. She waits to feel manacled, as she had the first time, instead she simply feels exhausted.  
Mr. Parker does not look at her, his gaze fixed steadily beyond the altar.  
His murmured echo of her name and his assent to their union are the only words he speaks for the entirety of their time at the church.

There is no proper wedding breakfast. Susan hosts a small luncheon at her house, casting Mr. Parker - Sidney, Charlotte reminds herself - dark looks across the table.  
"You have a ward, I believe?" Susan enquires of him, receives a curt nod. "Rather wealthy, I am told.” She cuts at the fish on her plate and raises an eyebrow as it scrapes across the china. “Do you make it a habit to collect young heiresses?"  
"Susan!" Charlotte whispers harshly, closing her eyes against the exhaustion that sweeps over her. "Please! I accepted Mr. Parker's offer. Direct your irritation towards me."  
But Mr. Parker has already risen from the table.  
"I will see to the carriage." He declares, then turns sharply to Charlotte, "Mrs. Parker, if you would he ready to depart before the hour is out I would greatly appreciate it."  
Charlotte does not answer, caught out in her surprise over her new title. He does not wait for one, storming from the room.  
"Please forgive Sidney." The woman, Sidney's sister-in-law, speaks quietly. "He is under an immense amount of stress."  
"Stress which I believe my friend's finances should alleviate immeasurably." Lady Susan says tartly, and both husband and wife fall silent, exchanging a sorrowful glance.  
Charlotte stands.  
"Please excuse me. I must...pack." She drifts upstairs, and Susan follows her a moment later. Charlotte stands in the centre of her room, bed made and all her bags laid out neatly.  
"Charlotte." Susan says in a warm voice, and Charlotte knows that only a year ago such kindness would have brought her to tears, "You do not have to do this. You do not have to live in fear."  
"I am not afraid." Charlotte shakes her head.  
"Mr. Parker does not seem to be a kind man. Do you know, Eliza-"  
"We do not speak of Eliza!" Charlotte exclaims desperately, and Susan falls silent.  
"Forgive me." She says quietly, one hand against the doorpost. "I do not want to see you broken again."  
Charlotte begins to order her bags. Then, very deliberately, she removes her pins until her hair falls loose and wild about her shoulders.  
"If it is true that I have been broken," She says with more than a trace of bitterness, "Then I do not know of a time in which I have been mended from it. Have no fear, Susan, Mr. Parker cannot break something that does not exist."  
As she grasps her bags and moves to the door, Susan moves aside. She grasps Charlotte's sleeve as she brushes past.  
"Write to me." Susan entreats and after a moment Charlotte nods, just once.

“Here.” Charlotte hands her bags to Mr. Parker as he waits outside, a sentinel guarding something no one else can see.  
“Is this all?” He asks, and she nods. He turns and hands the trunk and two hat boxes up to the driver, who secures them briskly. Mr. Parker opens the carriage door and Charlotte climbs inside. He stands without, hesitating for a moment.  
“You have said your goodbyes?” He asks, and Charlotte nods, folding her hands in her lap. He sighs once, before stepping up into the carriage. As he settles, the rush of air caused by his movement sends a wave of scent towards her. He smells like smoke, salt and September air. Charlotte presses her lips together firmly as the carriage rocks into motion.  
“Is it far to Sanditon?” She asks after a moment. She feels little enough curiosity about their destination, but she would like to know how long she is to be trapped in a carriage with her stranger of a husband.  
“The journey will take the better part of a day.” Mr. Parker’s voice is low, muffled in the dim interior of the carriage, “I shall depart tomorrow.”  
“Depart- to Sanditon?” Charlotte is puzzled. Mr. Parker looks at her with a frown.  
“Yes.” He says slowly, as if he fears for Charlotte’s wits, “To Sanditon.”  
“But I-” Charlotte struggles against a rising panic she had not foreseen, straining to keep her tone even, “I thought we were going to Sanditon now?”  
“Why would I take you to Sanditon?” Mr. Parker looks almost disgusted by the idea, “Have no fear, the Parkers may not be high up in the world, but we do have a London residence. It is to Bedford Place I am taking you.”  
“And leaving me?” Charlotte demands, the panic nearly choking her. Mr. Parker looks out of the window dismissively.  
“You may move into one of your many other residences if you wish.” He levels a brief glare at her, “I have no objections, whatever it is you wish to do. I will not be a barrier to your social life.”  
“No!” Charlotte lurches across the carriage, grasping his arm desperately as she loses any semblance of control, “You will not leave me here! You will take me with you!” Mr. Parker jumps back, his hands half raised in front of him in surprise as both of Charlotte’s hands wrap themselves around his forearm. She is half-kneeling in front of him, her gown pooling on the floor of the carriage.  
“Please.” She says desperately, overwhelmed by the memory of cold dark rooms, long corridors, crowds of jaded people, drooping birds in bright colours. “I cannot remain here, I cannot.”  
It was all she had been counting on. The excuse to escape.  
She shakes her head and feels her breath coming shorter and shorter as his silence continues. He is looking at her in deep consternation, a frown pulling at his brow. “I cannot, I cannot.” She repeats, and her eyes begin to lose focus. Charlotte cannot tell whether it is tears of a lack of oxygen which are narrowing her vision, but she cannot relinquish her hands from Mr. Parker’s arm any more than she can inhale air.  
“Mrs. Campion!” She realises, dimly, that he is addressing her. There is a rushing in her ears and she can hardly hear him over the noise of her own blood pounding frantically. “Mrs. Campion calm yourself!”  
But Charlotte is beyond hearing.  
“Mrs. Parker!” He tries, moving his free arm to clasp Charlotte’s hands with his own. “Christ, your hands are like ice.”  
Charlotte is still desperately trying to draw in breath when he breaks her grip with gentle ease, hands wrapping themselves around her waist as he lifts her into the seat next to him. His gloved hands begin to rub briskly up and down her arms and Charlotte feels besieged by sensation, no closer to drawing a deeper breath.  
“Breathe, Mrs.-”, He cuts himself off, “Forgive me.” He says quietly, so quietly Charlotte barely registers it, “I cannot at this instant recall your Christian name.”  
“Ch-” She chokes, surprise at the genuine nature of his admission breaking through the haze of her panic, “Charlotte.”  
“Charlotte.” He finds her gaze and holds it, his eyes serious. “Please breathe.”  
“I cannot.” She says helplessly, “I cannot, I cannot.”  
“You can.” He says firmly, and he slows the brushes of his hands deliberately to mimic the pace of deep, even breaths, his own breathing settling to match it almost unconsciously.  
Charlotte gulps in air and holds his gaze fiercely.  
“You will not,” She gasps out as her breath begins to even out, “You will not leave without me.”  
“I will not leave without you.” He confirms, hands stilling on her arms. She glares at him.  
“You will not leave me here.” She demands, all care for appeasement temporarily dispelled by her fear, and he looks down at the floor of the carriage with a tired sigh.  
“I will take you to Sanditon.” He says evenly, “If that is truly what you wish.”  
“Not London.” Charlotte can feel her hands beginning to tremble, a warmth spreading up her neck as she becomes conscious enough to feel some embarrassment for her wild panic.  
“Not London.” Mr. Parker echoes, eyes returning to her face with a somewhat assessing gaze.  
Charlotte nods sharply, turns her face away. Mr. Parker’s hands fall from her arms and he moves backwards slightly.  
Silence falls for a moment before he swears quietly. Charlotte looks at him.  
“Mrs. C-” He breaks off over the harsh consonant at her slight flinch, crow-like in his black with a clacking beak. _Campion, Campion_ \- how she hates the name. “Charlotte.”  
She tilts her head in acknowledgement.  
“If it were possible to continue to Sanditon now, would you prefer it?” She does not even think about it, nodding instantly as a deep shudder runs down her spine.  
“Very well.” The carriage rolls to a halt as if responding to his words, and Charlotte looks at him in surprise.  
“How-?” She asks, and he laughs without humour, a short exhalation.  
“We are simply at Bedford Place.” He tells her, “Young cannot yet read my mind, more’s the pity.” Charlotte assumes that he is talking of the driver.  
“I must go inside to collect my things.” Mr. Parker continues, “Would you like to accompany me, or would you rather stay in the carriage?”  
“The carriage.” Charlotte swallows, her mouth dry. She feels spun out of control, uncomfortable under the sharpness of his gaze. All of the possessions she intends to take with her are already stowed in the carriage.  
“You are sure?” He enquires, and Charlotte only nods.  
He gets out of the carriage, a rush of cool air blowing through the carriage as the door opens and swings shut. Charlotte can hear a murmured conversation between Mr. Parker and the driver, feels a pang of guilt for making the man drive further than he expected in such miserable weather. But she cannot, she _cannot_ stay in London for one more hour. She hears the sharp footfalls of Mr. Parker’s boots upon the steps of Bedford Place, curls miserably into the corner of the carriage, making herself as small as she can.  
It is then, and only then, that Charlotte cries.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story continues :)
> 
> Thank you so much for all your comments and kudos, I really really appreciate them! It's so lovely to hear from you all, both old friends and new! Life is a bit busy at the moment, but I promise I will get better at actually replying to comments from here on out!
> 
> You're all the best. Hope you enjoy!

When Mr. Parker climbs back into the coach, Charlotte has wiped her eyes. She knows they must still be reddened from her weeping, so she turns her face away from him. 

Mr. Parker does not speak, and the only sound within the carriage is that of the wheels over the cobbles as the horses surge into motion.

Charlotte feels as though she ought to know the moment they leave London, as though she ought to feel a weight of dread lift off her shoulders and a clearness enter her mind.

In truth, she barely notices. She blinks, and it is nearly night. The rain has stopped, or it never began in the rich deep countryside that surrounds them. The sun is a ruddy orange to the west, rolling fields swollen with produce and foliage bathed in yellow splendour. 

It feels far less than real, to Charlotte. 

She looks back into the carriage, her neck stiff from its lack of movement and the awkward angle from which she had been staring through the window. Mr. Parker is asleep, the deep furrow in his brow lessened by slumber. He looks younger, she thinks, as all people do when they sleep. All adult character and knowledge is stripped away and the underlying, dangerous vulnerability is revealed. 

Charlotte remembers sleeping in her mother’s lap, curled up and warm. She remembers Alison’s head against her ankle, Alison’s deep breaths in the dark of their room. Little George and Henry, the way their tiny hands would unfurl like delicate petals on a summer morning. 

And later, her father’s wheezing breaths. The pain he hid upon his face during the day being slowly revealed as he gave way to unconsciousness. 

Charlotte blinks her thoughts away, concentrating on the face of her husband. If she studies the curve of his brow very carefully, she may banish other, less welcome thoughts. He is a strange relative to his brother, she thinks. She remembers Mr. Tom Parker from the luncheon, the way his small bones had seemed to paint fine, delicate lines around his lines of worry. Sidney Parker wears his expressions like a storm - everything about his face is bold, from the heavy brow to the strong nose and full lips. Charlotte thinks he seems frozen even when in motion, in motion even when at rest. 

He is a conundrum. 

She is tracing the line of his adam’s apple with her eyes when he wakes, rather like a cat upon hearing a sharp noise. His head jerks up, and every line of muscle tenses without moving. Charlotte does not look away. There is a haziness about the carriage’s interior, bathed in its strange orange glow. It as though they are coals in a fire, and Charlotte marvels at the almost elemental aspect of Sidney Parker’s face when it is so lit by the sun. 

“You are staring.” He says gruffly, and her eyes flicker to meet his. 

“Looking.” She says quietly, and he grunts. Charlotte leans her head back against the window, continuing to look at him. “Did we ever meet?” She asks, still quiet. “I cannot recall. Susan said you were at a gathering she held last year, but I confess many of those months are but a blur to me.”

“Yes, I’m sure it must be a struggle to remember an individual event amongst the many dozens you attended.” His tone is not kind, a far cry from the entreaty used in his exertions to calm her from her previous distress. “We were introduced, I believe. We exchanged nothing more than courtesies.”

Charlotte sighs. “You have the start on me, then.” She tells him, ignoring his unfriendly tone, “I did not have the faintest idea what you even looked like before today.”

“Then why in God’s name-?” He breaks off, as though unsure what his question was to be.

“Did I marry you?” Charlotte smiles at him slowly in amusement. She feels drowsy and strangely peaceful. She thinks it is the exhaustion from her attack of nerves earlier. Embarrassment will return, she knows. All feeling comes and goes in waves now, and Charlotte is at high tide; smooth barren sand stretches through her mind, the roiling sea hauled back and back to a muffled horizon. It is peaceful, on the quiet sand in her mind. 

“In essence, that was my question.” Mr. Parker admits. He looks angry that he is forced to reveal as much. 

“Why did you marry me?” Charlotte shrugs, turning the question around upon him. He looks at her sardonically.

“I believe I stated my reasons for marrying you very explicitly.” He says, then his expression darkens, “I would have no misunderstandings between us.”

“You did.” Charlotte says, not looking away, “I could not decide whether it was kind or cruel, that you were so blunt.”

“I intended only to be honest.” He looks over her shoulder to the window, eyes lit directly by the sun. They look like sparks in a forge, or the dark dregs of whisky in a glass. Charlotte drops her gaze to his shoulder.

“Kind, then.” She says, almost to herself. 

“Your naivety is astounding.” He almost glares at her, but Charlotte is not afraid. All the desperate energy she felt as they left London is dissipated. High tide, calm shores. Even Mr. Parker's suppressed anger cannot disturb her lethargy. 

“Believe me.” She rolls her head around to stare into the last rays of the sun. Perhaps her eyes are like flames now, or else burning out into nothing but brilliant light. “Any naivety I possessed is long gone.”

He halts them at a small inn. Charlotte wants to continue to Sanditon, but Mr. Parker refuses. 

“We shall arrive in the small hours to a cold house with no servants. We should only make ourselves uncomfortable. Young, at least, deserves a decent night’s rest."

Charlotte’s guilt returns at the reminder of their driver. She is not used to being responsible for other people’s lives. She can barely manage the responsibility of her own. 

“Of course.” She subsides, resigning herself to an extended uncertainty over their destination. 

She waits by the door as Sidney books their rooms, but he returns with a dark countenance. 

“I was obliged to book just the one room.” He admits, and Charlotte guesses from the stricken look of pride on his face that money may have been the cause of their restriction. Internally, she berates herself for not asking Susan how to withdraw funds from the bank. She has been a wealthy woman for months, and she has yet to touch a single penny of her wealth. She let Susan loan her gowns, gave her discretion and the agency to withdraw enough from Charlotte’s accounts to finance her keep. She knows Susan never did, but Charlotte had always been unwilling to confront her about the matter. 

She simply nods to Mr. Parker, sees a flicker of frustration cross his face at her complacency. In truth, all of her earlier comfort has gone. Charlotte hates sleeping near another person, and she steels herself for a long night of wakefulness. The sea in her mind inches closer, rivulets of blue that creep between her ribs and splash her lungs with ice. 

“I shall take the couch.” Mr. Parker says as he enters the room, only to stop short. There is not even an armchair or a window seat to the room, no other stick of furniture besides a small double bed and two bedside cabinets, a washstand in the corner. 

“The floor, then.” He grunts. 

“How many bedrooms does our house at Sanditon have?” Charlotte asks, and Mr. Parker looks at her, taken aback by the question. 

“I do not know.” He frowns, “Four, perhaps? My ward is to live with us. I mentioned her in my letter. Her chaperone must also live with us, unless you wish to take on the role yourself.”

“I would not know how to be a chaperone." Charlotte says absently, biting her lip as she thinks. "Four bedrooms. One for your ward, one for her chaperone, one for any guest that we might have to stay and one other.” She looks at him, calmly. “We may as well start as we mean to go on.”

“I did not intend-” Mr. Parker looks angry and conflicted. Charlotte remembers, suddenly, that he had thought to leave her in London. Four bedrooms would have been plenty for a man frequently absent on business, and a lone ward and her companion. 

“I forgot.” Charlotte says, feeling a light blush tinge her cheeks, “Forgive me, I only meant to spare you a night spent on the floor. The boards look unforgiving.” She cannot bear the idea that he might think she wishes to share the bed with him. She thinks back to their conversation, his confusion over her reasons for marrying him. Perhaps he truly had no idea, or perhaps he had speculated that he might have charmed her on the grounds of their sole interaction. A hysterical giggle bubbles up in her throat at the thought. 

“What has amused you?” He asks, standing awkwardly in the small room. Charlotte shakes her head, swallowing her temporary insanity.

“Nothing of significance.” She tells him. 

Perhaps he has cause, she thinks as he is silhouetted against the flickering candle, to assume that one meeting with him would be enough to sway an impressionable young woman. She tilts her head as she considers it. His irritation with her may simply be a result of his wounded pride that she has no recollection of him, but it seems to run deeper. 

He was gentle, earlier. Charlotte has made worse decisions in her life, Lord knows. 

“Mrs.-...Charlotte.” Mr. Parker looks awkward even speaking the word. Charlotte wonders if she will ever be able to bring herself to call him by his own Christian name. “I would like to reiterate that I have no intention-...that is, I have no wish-”

“You have no wish to consummate the marriage.” Charlotte says bluntly, and he almost flinches. “Do not fear, Mr. Parker.” She smiles at him drily, “I have no designs on your virtue. Your letter spoke of a marriage of convenience. I consented to it. We are of the same mind.”

“If it were at all possible to know your mind.” He mutters as he begins to unbutton his coat, and Charlotte summons a smile with effort. 

Her father used to call her face an open book, but perhaps she has run out of people who know how to read it. Or perhaps she has simply blotted its pages too comprehensively to leave anything legible. 

"Do you wish to know it?" She asks, genuinely curious in spite of herself, ignoring the tugging waves around her thoughts. In her experience, men would rather talk about their own minds and selves than listen to the existence of another's, and she is genuinely intrigued to explore this unforeseen potential in the man whom she has just married. His response will be more welcome than her own thoughts, at least.

Mr. Parker straightens and looks at her, hands frozen in the process of undoing his cravat.

"You mistake me." He clears his throat, turns away. "I have no wish to know you at all."

Charlotte sighs. False hopes leave a bitter sting, however small. She should have known better. 

But something about him riles her. He does not seem a cruel man - and she knows, now, what it is to be around cruel men - but he is cold and passionate by turns. Interested, then forcibly distant. He has married her for her money, and somehow hopes to escape her for the rest of their lives. He calls her naive, yet she is astounded by his own determined obliviousness. 

"The better question," Charlotte says, unable to stop herself or the thrill that ignites in her body at being roused to curiosity, roused to some kind of feeling after the dullness of the last year, "Is do you wish me to know you?"

He glances at her, and she cannot tell if he is intrigued or affronted.

"I believe we would both be better off if neither of us knew anything of the other." He says stiffly after a moment of silence.

"And yet that is impossible!" Charlotte throws up her hands, "Already we know things of each other. We cannot help but learn each other, however slowly or unintentionally."

"Would you turn this into a philosophical discussion?" He says, and behind the disdainful curl of his lip Charlotte senses a slight hint of genuine interest.

"Would you like it if I did?" She asks back, and wrings an abrupt laugh from him. He shakes his head.

"You are not what I expected." He says, not answering Charlotte's question. His arms hang loose by his side, and his coat lies on the bed, neatly folded. For some reason, his words unsettle Charlotte. Her moods feel like quicksilver, running too swiftly through her brain and body to keep their shape. The sea beckons, promising the storm. 

"Expectations rarely do anyone any favours." She tells him tartly. He crosses his arms behind his back.

"You are right." He replies, then strides across the room, ignoring how Charlotte flinches at the sudden movement. She hopes he did not notice it. "I shall give you a moment to change." With this, he leaves the room.

Charlotte stands for a moment, before briskly unknotting the ribbon of her bonnet. She hangs it carefully from the bedpost, and when her dress has been removed she lays it carefully next to his coat. She does not know quite what to make of the contrast - light silver white against dark black, the deep blue of the covered muddying the thin line which divides the two fabrics.

There is a knock at the door, and Charlotte turns, flustered.

"A moment!" She calls out, carding through her bag for her nightgown. Finding It, she swiftly removes her stays and shrugs it on, sparing a moment to sigh in relief as her lungs expand slightly. She tucks herself under the covers, not knowing whether to sit or lie down. She sits, hands combing through her hair to relieve the knotted ends. 

"You may enter." She calls softly, and her husband slips through the door. In one hand, he carries a platter of bread and cheese.

"I did not know if you would be hungry." He says, not looking at her as he sets it on the cabinet on his side of the bed. Charlotte's stomach rolls at the thought of any food.

"Thank you, but I am simply tired." She says, and he nods briefly. He begins to unbutton the cuffs of his shirt, and she looks away. Sliding under the covers, she stares at the wall, watching the flicker of the candle and the dancing of his shadow.

The mattress tips under his weight, and Charlotte closes her eyes tightly. She will not sleep, but she hates to be awake, the sea always dancing on the edges of her thoughts, memories in their depths like the mirrored horrors of a scrying glass. Mr. Parker snuffs the candle and the room softens into deep hues of blue and black.

“Sanditon.” She says into the darkness. A soft grunt is the only reply. “You said there was a fire?”

“There was.” The mattress creaks as Mr. Parker shifts. Charlotte thinks he might have moved to lie on his back. She leans further into the pillows.

“Was it very bad?” She assumes it must have been. It bankrupted him, after all. 

“Bad enough.” He grunts.

Charlotte inhales in frustration.

“Was anyone hurt?” She presses. Silence stands for a long moment, until Mr. Parker sighs wearily. 

“One man died. A skilled workman. Others were quite badly burned.” His voice is low and filled with weariness. Charlotte does not think it is the kind which may be remedied by sleep. 

“I am sorry to hear that.” She says carefully. “And the town? It was badly affected?”

Mr. Parker snorts. “The town is as it always was, save for my brother's embellishments. We lost the terrace only, and there were no families living there to be affected.”

“An empty terrace?” Charlotte turns her head in surprise, “I thought Sanditon had grown successful?”

“It was newly built.” Mr. Parker does not elaborate. 

“But-,” Charlotte hesitates, unwilling to offer an opinion which might be incorrect, “Would the building work not have been insured? If it was only the terrace that was lost how-”

“There was no insurance.” He is angry now, even as his voice remains level. Charlotte screws her eyes shut tightly and lets the sharp lights dance beneath her lids with the pressure. “And we had not the money to build again.”

“We.” Charlotte says quietly. 

“My family.” Says Mr. Parker. 

“But I thought-”

“Peace, pray.” Mr. Parker’s voice brooks no refusal, “I would have _some_ sleep before the night is quite through.” He shifts on the bed, and Charlotte can make out enough in the darkness to see the shadow of his back as he turns away, a small obstinate mountain range of intractability. 

Charlotte frowns, her mind racing. 

Not for the first time, she wishes that she had learned more about Mr. Parker before accepting his proposal. 


End file.
